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I write this with no knowledge of where you are, or if you are. Yet, still, I write.

And as I write, my words are overtaken by memories. Your finger pointing at verse in some ancient text\\u2014I have forgotten the book\\u2019s name in favor of remembering your eyes, bright. Your voluminous generosity, as you led me into inquiry I dared not pursue. Your voice, angry, confused, and honest in the face of terror. And then, for the last time, your stark figure silhouetted against early moonlight on that hill south of Rosemerrow.

Has the paladin protected you, I wonder? Could I have offered my own protection instead of simply suggesting\\xa0I hide you away like I did the others? I thought I was presenting you a gift, but in retrospect, I fear I was too vague: Perhaps you believed that I felt you were important in general\\u2014like the others I saved\\u2014instead of important to me.

I\\u2019m moving now, Pupil. I\'m retrieving the book and with it, I will build us a home. All of us.\\xa0I\\u2019m moving now because I must. Because I will not let your memory be still stone in my mind, but will treat you instead as a river in my heart, a path to follow towards a bright, distant sea.\\xa0

Perhaps I will lose myself on the way. Or, perhaps,\\xa0I will find you.

Your Tutor,\\xa0Always

This Week on Friends at the Table: Slow Justice

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Hosted by Austin Walker (@austin_walker)

Cover Art by Craig Sheldon (@shoddyrobot)

Music by\\xa0Jack de Quidt

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